


The Saint of Kingsburg

by Pen Dumonium (megyal)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Genderfluid, Genderqueer, Other, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 13:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/Pen%20Dumonium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh blessed and redeemed, the faithful of Kingsburg, your patron Saint Pahmin and protector greets you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Saint of Kingsburg

**Author's Note:**

> Finished this for a Week of Writing Challenge. :D

Jeru's father woke her up a few minutes before the first call. He stood there at her narrow doorway, his smile playing hide-and-seek across his thin lips.

"You did want to watch the Saint's message?" he asked quietly. Even after years of living in the 'Burg, he still had the same soft mode of speech and that particular lilting creole which marked him as a former denizen of the western underground. Quite a few people derided him for it; Jeru thought it was lovely, and liked that he didn't try to change it for anyone... not even her mother.

Jeru nodded, and crawled out from under her numerous layers of scraps. 

"I made breakfast," her father said, and moved away from the door, heading back towards the living area. "Hurry, it gonna start."

Jeru grabbed a box of towelettes on the shelf over her pallet and pulled one out, swiping it over her face. She then dug around the satchel which held most of her clothing, locating a packet of white pills.Popping one into her mouth, she pursed her lips at the mint-flavoured explosion in her mouth, bubbles cascading around her teeth and over her tongue. She swallowed the lot, pulled on a pair of black leggings under the thin undershirt she wore to bed and ran out of her room.

Her father sat on a stool between the dingy cook-top and the long, low couch; he grabbed the handle of the frying pan with the toes of his left foot, deftly grabbing a spoon with the toes of his right. The stool had a seat that swivelled and he used that to swing around, tilting the pan and scraping the food out onto two plates which had been placed on the couch.

Jeru pulled open a drawer in the wall next to the cook-top and pulled out two bent forks. On the wall over her father's head, a small screen flickered through scenes from the Place of The Saint; the commentator murmured urgently, but the volume was too low for Jeru to hear. She stretched up and twisted the button that controlled the audio; the commentator's murmur increased to an excited chatter. Thousands of veiled worshippers milled around the massive square, awaiting the message. The Place surrounded the square almost completely, a tall building which gleamed a dull silver in the permanent twilight of the 'Burg. The only entrance was a narrow break in the structure, wide enough to admit four people side-to-side at the same time

Jeru's father turned off the cook-top and slid off the stool, stumbling a little. His arms, which projected no more than a few inches from his shoulders, wriggled around a little as he tried to gain his balance. She took up his plate, waited until he fell more than sat into the couch and handed it to him with the fork.

"Thanks!" He beamed at her, teeth white against the soft brown skin of his face. Jeru smiled at him, and settled down herself. She tasted a forkful of the food, and hummed in delight. It was some protein mash she had bought last week. Her father had cooked it up with some spices and it was wonderful.

"Delicious, Tata," she said and her father grinned again.

"Cantor's ready." He pointed with his fork to the screen, which now displayed a young person standing at the top of a wide set of steps. "Oh, is a new one."

Jeru hummed her agreement as she had another forkful of food. The last message they'd managed to catch, the cantor had been an old, hunched individual with scarred skin and burning fervour of faith in their rheumy eyes. This person was barely an adult, their long black hair coiled into elaborate twists and piled on their head. It wasn't immediately apparent if they were male or female, but that was the norm for a Cantor: they were neither with the presence of the Saint. Their skin was as dark as Jeru's father's, and Jeru wondered if their pale grey eyes were the ones they had been born with. The markings of the Saint were stark on their face: silver, raised dots in elaborate circular patterns under the wide-set eyes and across the bridge of the broad nose. They wore no veil nor cowl, which was unusual. Their grey robes were very plain.

"The Cantor is about to begin!" The commentator announced, quite unnecessarily, for they had lifted their slender hands, palms up. The crowd fell silent.

"Oh blessed and redeemed, the faithful of Kingsburg, your patron Saint Pahmin and protector greets you," the Cantor sang. "Your Saint sends you greetings of hope, prosperity and love." Jeru forgot about her food for moment, gaping at the screen. The Cantor was nervous, that much was obvious from the slight tremor in that beautiful voice, and the first few words had almost been inaudible; but their voice was so earnestly pure. Jeru swallowed back the lump that had formed in her throat. 

A ripple of approval and delight moved like a fire through the crowd. 

"That was _nice_ ," Jeru's father murmured.

The Cantor took a deep breath, and then spoke. Their speaking voice was just as lovely. "O great city of Kingsburg, as the ninetieth year of the Saint's protection draws near--"

Jeru heard nothing else. She stared at the Cantor, the host of the Saint, their eyes glowing with their alien presence. Their lips were full, curling around the words provocatively. Jeru wondered at the texture of their skin, and if their hair was as soft as it looked.

Tata snapped his fingers in front of her face and Jeru flinched with a sharp cry of surprise, almost spilling her mash into her lap.

"Tata!" she scolded as he laughed softly. He looked into her face and then turned to stare at the Cantor.

"Nice to look at," he murmured, "but Cantors are not for people like us."

"I know." Jeru shovelled some mash into her mouth, chewing contemplatively. On the screen, the Cantor smiled, and turned their heads, exposing the ladder of scars under their ear, trailing down their long neck; those scars marked where the Saint had entered the Cantor.

Jeru stared, and the standardized engine in her chest hummed with want.

_fin_


End file.
